Celestial
by Oscuro Dream
Summary: Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that. In the end, Sigurd, shaman of his tribe, will have to find both.
1. Prologue

_Summer had finally come for the Three Tribes of the Light._

_Hot sun had erased any trace of snow from the long winter months weeks ago, and the tarr had returned from their winter migration to graze at the new grass that lined the forest. With them they brought the birds, eager for the fruit that hung heavy on the bushes that had rapidly bloomed in the hot sun._

_Sigurd Bondevik, Shaman of the Tribe of the Full Moon and the oldest living member of the group, hated the season._

_Now, he didn't hate every aspect of summer. Having enough food to live comfortably was certainly an upside, and the spirits always got chatty and let Sigurd share their energy with him. However, the light hurt what remained of the old man's vision, and the bugs __that buzzed in his ears and landed in his hair __were a constant hindrance – it wasn't like he could just stand up and move away from them anymore. Sigurd's legs were far too weak for that sort of __thing a__nymore. By the Spinners, he hated being old. _

_Nevertheless, there were many reasons for him to hate summer, and so he continued doing so with a vigour that did not quite match his age.__Of course, Sigurd had always hated with a surprising passion, considering his usually-flat expresssions and the way that he ignored the small things._

"_Tino!" The only possible upside to being old, Sigurd observed as he called out for the boy, was that he got people that were younger than him to do whatever he wanted; hence, having Tino as an apprentice was clearly a logical thing to do._

"_Yes, Sigurd?" The soft voice of the boy he'd taken on around six winters ago distracted Sigurd from his thoughts, and he turned his head in the direction of Tino's voice. He'd never seen the boy, of course, as he was mostly blind, but he enjoyed imagining what he might look like. Was he tall? Would he have dark eyes and light hair, or neither of those features? Whatever he looked like, Tino had a voice that sounded like the too-cheerful birdsong he was forced to listen to throughout all of summer. He liked Tino more than summer, though. If anything, Tino reminded him of spring, of new life and excitement and things he'd long lost interest in. It was refreshing, the old man decided._

"_I need you to write down something."_

"_Another story?" The note of delight that entered the voice Sigurd had come to know so well over the last few years amused him a little, and he gave a slow nod. When he'd first taken Tino on, he'd checked with his chief (his name was Erzbet, and much like his mother, made an excellent leader) as to whether the boy could write, and when Erzbet had confirmed that he could, Sigurd had instantly begun telling Tino stories. Tino wrote them all down, too, which comforted the Shaman. Even when he was gone and he became a spirit, his stories would still be here. Hopefully the people he would leave behind could make some use of them._

_He only had one story left. This one was a story he was ashamed of, but the Shaman supposed he had to tell it sometime. As much as it pained him, there were people who had suffered more because of what had happened... and he wouldn't allow anyone else to suffer because of human foolishness._

"_Mmm. Sit down." A rustle as Tino settled down into the furs next to the Shaman indicated he should start, and he cleared his throat, turning his head in the direction of where he knew the opening of the cave was. "It began when I was only eighteen winters; the Lights were fading, although I didn't know it at the time."  
>"Fading?" Tino was clearly bewildered, and Sigurd felt himself smile ias he ran the hem of his fur coat through his fingers.<em>

"_Yes. They were being sucked away, into a sort of vessel."_

"_But aren't the Lights the breath of the Spinners or, ah...?"  
>"You should know this." Sigurd rolled his milky, unseeing eyes as his apprentice trailed off, and waited for Tino to elaborate a little more.<em>

"_Well, there are three Spinners. They created the universe that we exist in, and the universe the spirits live in. Then they created the gods." There was a pause as Tino flipped through the heavy book on his lap, the parchment crinkling in a way that gave Sigurd some sort of childish satisfaction, then continued. "The gods created our world, but only because the Spinners had planned it. The gods' breath are the Lights, and the Lights are what create the bridge between our world and the spirit world. The gods exist there, too... without the Lights, there is no way for the spirits to leave our world when they die. It's also impossible for 'new' spirits to enter this world and become a soul for someone."_

"_Better." Nodding slowly, Sigurd stretched, feeling his joints creak __in protest at the movement__. "The Lights where being taken, unwillingly, by a boy born of the Clan of the Crescent Moon. He was born __on the longest day of the year__, __which was the last day the Lights appeared in all their fullness for a good __eighteen__ years,__ and __his eyes... __they changed like the Lights __the moment he was born__. I wasn't blind then, of course." The second statement was added with some haste, simply to cut off the question he could already feel coming from his apprentice. "I can remember what they looked like." Quietly, he brushed his hand through his hair, __feeling the bugs that had settled in it scatter, __then took a breath. The wave of longing had come and passed in a mere moment, and he had to move on. "When I was twenty one winters, however, the Lights vanished completely." _

"_What?!" Tino dropped his book, and Sigurd restrained a laugh as he felt around for the worn volume and handed it back to Tino._

"_Yes. At the time, of course, it was a complete disaster; it happened in the midst of winter, and we had nothing to light up the night other than the fires we constructed."_

"_How did you hunt?" His apprentice asked softly, and the Shaman shrugged lazily._

"_Badly. We lived off dried meat, and when we had the chance, fresh meat from the liufr." There was a long pause, and Tino touched Sigurd's arm gently.  
>"Is that why the only liufr is that spirit that follows you around?" He asked, voice heavy with caution. The words sent a shiver through the Sharman, and he shook his head slowly, heaving himself up and grabbing Tino's shoulder with a faint grunt. The spirit he spoke of was nearby, pacing by the entrance of the cave, and it quickly padded over to support Lukas' other arm. Shamans were gifted the ability to see the dark shapes that drifted over the landscape, the spirits of everything that had not yet moved on to the next world. Some, like the animal under his arm, chose to stay.<em>

"_No, no, we didn't eat them all. Something worse happened, but I'll get to that. Help me outside first." The trio struggled to the entrance of Lukas' small home, and the sudden __wave of heat__ made the Shaman shiver __in disapproval__. The __sweet smell of the blooming flowers__ was enough to encourage him to take another step forward, however, and he tilted his head upwards, feeling the wind brush his hair back. The spirit next to him nudged his hand as a silent reminder to keep talking, and Lukas curled his fingers in the animal's fur. "So, one day the hunters started setting traps for this boy. We had to catch him, after all."_

_"What sort of traps?"_

_"__Steel-tooth__ traps." Tino inhaled quite sharply at that, but then shifted around a bit, clearly thinking something __through__.__Sigurd almost anticipated the question before it was asked, but it didn't change the thrill of fear that went through him when it was._

_"Is it true you and him had a relationship? You... you were lovers?" __Sigurd knew__ the word had long __been w__hispered around all three tribes, and he sank down quietly onto the __sun-warmed rock that he had pushed there himself, years ag__o, as he thought through his answer._

_"... You could say that. However, that's not relevant quite yet." Turning, he eyed where he knew Tino was. "Anyway, one day when there was a break in a blizzard, they found him and brought him into our camp."_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'll provide some definitions of words that will be used by the people in the fic below. If they're not there, I intend to clear them up as this story progresses. The idea for this AU was coined by lupinlu and I; we hope you enjoy it!**

**Tarr: An animal similar to a caribou, these animals stand at around 1.5 metres at the shoulder, and possess antlers of up to 2 metres from tip to tip. They are usually a patchy white-brown colour, and graze primarily on grass. They migrate over frozen water every year to reach warmer climates, and return in summer via a land route to the hunting grounds of the tree tribes. Tarr make up an important food group for all three tribes, despite living mostly in the low-lying areas around water, which makes it difficult for any tribe other than the Tribe of the Full Moon to make use of them through the two seasons they are available.**

**Liufr: Large, dangerous predators, these animals are similar to gray wolves. They are about 2 metres in length fully grown, and can come in almost any shade in the regions of white, black and brown. They usually hunt in massive packs of about thirty, but don't often attack humans. They prefer to stay in the mountainous regions, but with food scarce, they have been coming down to attack tarr. Their numbers have been dropping dramatically over the last twenty winters, and there is thought to be only one or two packs remaining in the tribe areas.**


	2. Chapter One

Sigurd reached up and adjusted the herbs hanging on the roof of his hut with a sigh, the musty smell of the dried plants filling the shelter. It was constructed neatly out of furs and wood, and while it was a temporary establishment, it was snug and warm. It was likely the warmest out of all the shelters constructed, but there was a reason for that. Sigurd was the shaman of the Tribe of the Full Moon, and he was the one who looked after the valuable and nigh irreplaceable herbs during the harsh winters. The coals in the center of the hut would keep the cold out, and every night Sigurd would hang the herb out to make sure the moisture hadn't got to them and caused them to begin to fall apart. As well as being important in his communication with the Spinners, they had medical value, and with the Lights being gone... they needed all the help they could get.

"Sigurd!" The harsh voice of one of his tribemates echoed triumphantly in the stillness of the early morning air, and Sigurd automatically tensed; loud noises usually meant cracking ice or predators. He quickly assured himself it wasn't either, as that voice was impossible to mistake when he considered it. That in mind, Sigurd pushed the flaps of his temporary housing aside to reveal Gilbert. The hunter had been born with a strange affliction, one that made his hair as white as the snow and his eyes a shade of red-purple that had always reminded Sigurd of the early morning sunrise. No one had a name for the condition, and even though it seemed like it was quickly ruining the hunter's vision, Sigurd admired the look it gave the otherwise rather irritating man. "We got him!"

"Got who?" Sigurd asked automatically, discarding Gilbert's enthusiasm as simply over something childish as he turned back to tending his herbs. He still remembered the time the hunter gave him a heart attack over the pinecone shaped like a polar bear, and he didn't forgive things easily when it had genuinely concerned him.

"The wild boy who's been stealing food! We found him!" Smacking the wooden doorframe gleefully with an open palm, Gilbert swung around on his heel and gestured frantically for Sigurd to follow him. "We even got a couple of liufr for fur and meat. I don't really like eating them, but I won't eat that dried seal meat shit again tonight. We've already got the stew on. Now, move, please," the please was added in for politeness sake, as a Shaman was placed at almost the top of their tribal rankings, "you have to check him over."

The wild boy. The words rang in Sigurd's mind, and he gave a quick nod, clearing the rest of the various plants off the floor and putting them on the table as his thoughts raced. There had long been a rumor about a boy abandoned by his tribe moons and moons ago, but when the Lights had vanished from the sky and they'd been left to the fangs of winter without anything to guide them, the rumors had taken off like a started gull. The wildboy who moved faster than any animal, and had teeth like a predator and eyes that gleamed like the Lights were supposed to... it sounded ridiculous, but many things Sigurd knew for a fact sounded ridiculous.

After all, the black shapes always lurking at the corners of his field of vision was proof enough of that.

"Do his eyes-"

"Glow? I don't know, we knocked him out before I could see. The little halfing was surrounded by this massive pack of liufr, it was chaos getting away. They were all pretty stunned by cold, though, so we only had to kill a few." After Gilbert's rude interruption, there was a pause, and Sigurd nodded. A year or two ago, they wouldn't have dreamt of killing predators like the liufr, considering their size and the amount of energy it took to slay one, but times were different now. The tarr had moved to the other side of the ocean for the winter, and this winter had dragged on for months. There were more important things to worry about in regards to food when it came to taste.

"Fair enough. Now, get out and go retrieve him, I'm going to make sure he's not going to die before I've investigated this further." Gilbert frowned a bit, his eyebrows pulled close together as he folded his arms.

"I just said that."

"Great. Go." Grumbling, the albino trudged out of the tent, and Sigurd eyed him impatiently as Gilbert lifted up a bundle of furs that held the boy and easily moved him inside. Judging by the way that he moved him, their new 'friend' was rather light. "Now..."

"I'm leaving!" Waving his hands, Gilbert winked at Sigurd before leaving the shaman alone with the boy.

Sigurd watched Gilbert leave, the fur flap falling into place behind the albino and small black spirits promptly flocking to cling to the swinging material like children to their mothers. Bemused, he reached out and brushed his fingers over one, then turned to look at the bundle that had been presented to him. He could feel nerves bubbling in the pit of his stomach; what if this truly was the being who had taken the Lights? The spirits were certainly interested in the lump of furs, which was unusual in itself. They weren't looking for a perch, just looking.  
>The shaman knelt down after a minute, unwrapping the furs. A face was quickly revealed, and Sigurd was almost certain this was the wild boy. It looked like he'd been starving; cheekbones pointed prominently from his face, and his skin was so pale it was almost translucent, although that could've been cold, too. Little scars from cuts and injuries littered his skin, and as Sigurd carefully undid the bundle of furs and ran his fingertips down his side, he could feel ribs.<p>

Well, it looked like the liufr weren't doing a very good job of raising him, Sigurd decided, a smile pricking at his lips. Continuing to touch spots like his hips and chest to feel out what sort of condition this boy was in, Sigurd paused. His heart was thudding hard in his own chest, but what threw him off was how hard the boy's heart was beating. It reminded him of a bird trapped in a cage, and there was no way someone of his size should have a heart rate that high... What if it was a sign of something else? The Lights?

_Don't be ridiculous._

Thankful for that little voice in his head that brought him back to what he was supposed to be doing, Sigurd set back to work cataloguing what was on the other. If the Lights were possibly contained in a mortal form, it would be in someone like a king, not some orphan who ran with liufr, who were nothing more than mindless beasts with weak spirits. Checking all the clumsily made clothing for anything that was of interest to him, the taller eventually stumbled across a knife. It shouldn't have surprised him, but the shaman felt his shoulders go tense, and he hastily pulled it from the sheath that was sown onto the furs to look it over. It was made of smooth bone, sharpened to a neat point, and had strange little scratches on the handle. They looked like an attempt at drawing, albeit a clumsy one... he couldn't make out what they might be, though.

Putting the knife aside, Sigurd stood up and moved to his table, collecting a handful of strengthening herbs from the bundle hanging off the roof after brushing off a small spirit. Well, he may as well make sure the person he was looking after was healthy, right? It was the right thing to do, he reassured himself. Settling down on his knees, he dropped the handful into a bowl and ground the herbs into a small paste, narrowing his eyes and running his finger through it to test the consistency. It stuck to his finger, just, so he put the bowl down and glanced back at the unconscious figure behind him. It'd be difficult to give him the poultice whilst he was unconscious, so he decided he'd just wait until the other woke. It'd be fine; he'd likely be too weak to do much, anyway.

With that in mind, he slowly lowered himself onto the mat next to the table and began sorting through the dried herbs next to his poultice so he could put them back into their neat bundles. Once or twice, a rustle caught his attention, and he would glance back at the prone form behind him. However, each time he did so, there was no movement, so he brushed the feeling bubbling in his chest off to paranoia. If the other was awake, he would have made some sort of noise; no doubt being knocked out had hurt, and waking up would not be a pleasant experience in the slightest.

Drifting back to his herbs, Sigurd let himself think about what they may have to do if their new prisoner did have the Lights inside him. Could he communicate with them the same way he did when they were in the sky? Whatever happened, he would deal with it, he decided. Leaning down to pick up some of the dried berries that had fallen with a sigh, a sudden rush of movement caught the corner of his gaze.

Spinning on his knees as fast as he could, his reaction was still far too slow, and a weight hit the center of his chest like a block of ice. It sent him sprawling, the wave of pain making him cry out almost automatically, and as Sigurd went to sit up again, the boy was on him in a flash. The knife was in his hand, Sigurd noted dimly, and it was suddenly silent as the boy panted and glared down furiously at the shaman below him.

Gripped by fear, the only thing Sigurd could think about was how bright the other's eyes were. They practically shone, like the sun on water, and if it had been on anyone else he might have called it pretty. However, the smell of fear off both of them and the bile very quickly rising in his throat was enough to deter that, and he lay very still as he waited for his death.

Surprisingly enough, it didn't come. Seeing that Sigurd wasn't going to fight back, the boy snapped his teeth like an animal down at him, running the blade over his collarbone and leaving a small nick in warning. Squawking in pain, Sigurd shielded his face, but the boy was backing off. He didn't anticipate the other showing mercy, but the fear had constricted his throat to the point where the shaman couldn't make a sound, so his own show of mercy was more forced. With one last growl, the other turned to leave, but was promptly met by Gilbert's elbow in his face.

His attacker lumped instantly to the floor, and finally gasping in a breath, Sigurd looked at Gilbert. "His eyes glow." He wheezed, and that said, the shaman passed out next to the shocked hunter.


	3. Chapter Two

When Sigurd slowly clawed his way back to consciousness and opened his eyes, feeling rather sick, the first thing he registered was the set of bright crimson eyes staring down into his own. For a brief moment, the shaman was completely bewildered, but when he felt a finger poke at his cheek, the man jerked up and slapped Gilbert's hand away.

"Are you alright?" Gilbert grilled, seemingly unaffected by the rough removal of his hand from Sigurd's face and instead raising his fringe to squint at the other's pale forehead. Flustered, Sigurd shoved the hunter off him and closed his eyes, trying to push past the fog in his mind and recall what happened. He remembered the gleam of the bone knife and the way the wildling's face had twisted when he'd held the knife above his throat, but he felt like he was forgetting something important…

"Where is he?" Turning his gaze to Gilbert, the hunter briefly frowned before realising who he was referring to and rolling his eyes. Making a vague gesture over his shoulder, the hunter stood up.

"Lizzy – Elizaveta tied him up with those dead animals outside as a punishment for trying to kill you. He screamed some Spinner-forsaken nonsense for almost twenty minutes before someone gagged him, do you know that?" Slowly taking this into consideration, Sigurd shook his head.

"I passed out, how was I supposed to know that?" It was a fitting punishment, the blond decided; after all, the boy had tried to kill him. They'd looked into each other's eyes and- "Gods! Is he dead?" The sudden exclamation made Gilbert stagger back, but Sigurd ignored this as he heaved himself up, wobbling.

"No-"

"Good, because we can't kill him." If the boy was dead, they were all ruined. He saw the confusion in the hunter, but didn't bother addressing it.

"Why not? The little bastard attempted to kill you, Sigurd! He's a drain on the resources we don't have."

"He has the Lights." Sigurd surprised himself with the flat certainty in his voice, and judging by Gilbert's expression, he was fairly shocked as well.

"Sigurd, he's… he's a wildling. How is he supposed to have them?! He's a runt, how in all the world is he supposed to have got them-"  
>"His eyes, Gilbert." The shaman gave Gilbert a chilling glance, and the albino hesitated before ploughing on.<p>

"His eyes are a different colour, alright, but so are mine-"

"He's practically covered in spirits!"

"How do you know you're not lying to make yourself look good?" Stunned, Sigurd narrowed his eyes. No one dared speak to him like that before the Lights vanished, but here was a hunter belittling him!

"How _dare_ you-"

"You two better not be fighting." Elizaveta's cold tone silenced both men instantly, and Sigurd swallowed, turning to face the tribe leader. Tall and muscular, her brown hair hung in one thick plait down her back, rarely undone, with herbs for strength and power knotted into it. When strands of it came loose, she would turn them into smaller plaits, and when the spring came, she would undo it and plait it again. She was shorter than both Sigurd and Gilbert, but the way she held herself leant the woman more power than either of the men she was currently staring down with a vengeance.

"Gilbert tried to imply that I am lying about-..." Although he was attempting to be aloof, Sigurd quickly realised that he sounded immensely childish.

"About what?" Elizaveta barely had time to finish her sentence and let Sigurd process it before Gilbert threw his own voice back into the argument.

"He thinks the wildling has the Lights in him!" A pause.

"Then keep him alive." Elizaveta sighed out, much to Sigurd's relief. Shooting Gilbert a smug look, he dipped his head at the leader of their tribe.

"Thank you." The shaman said easily, but Elizaveta waved her hand at the man.

"It's not for you, shaman. It's for the tribe, which you should both be thinking about." There was a long, heavy pause, and after a moment, a softer smile came onto the woman's face. "We're all tired and hungry, and I understand that. However, this darkness is showing no sign of relenting, and the strongest supports we have are each other. So, we're going to go and have some stew, and you're both going to grow up."

"Sorry, Liz." After half a minute, Gilbert piped up, and Sigurd reluctantly followed suit.

"Sorry." Elizaveta indicated for Gilbert to head outside with a quick flick of her hand. The hunter shot a look at Sigurd (the shaman did his best to look disconnected, but he couldn't fight the smirk that made it's way onto his face) before stomping out of the tent, a gust of cold wind coming in as the flap was opened. Rolling her eyes at his back, Elizaveta turned to look at Sigurd, an eyebrow raised.

"The boy has the Lights?"

"I can't say for certain." Sigurd admitted, relieved that the tribe leader, at least, was taking him seriously. "But I believe so. There is somethin' in him that shouldn't be. A mistake."  
>"After eating, we'll bring him in and investigate further." Much to the man's surprise, Elizaveta twisted her hand across her chest and dipped her head, a rare gesture of respect. "You see much we don't, Sigurd, but please do remember that we're not blind. There's a physical world, too." Her words echoed in his ears, and after a moment, he returned the gesture.<p>

"Thank you, Elizaveta." Their words hung heavy in the air, and Sigurd was forced to lower his gaze to a spirit clinging to his leg as the tribe leader scrutinized him.

"… Well, let's not loiter. There's a stew waiting for us outside, and there's more meat in it than anything, so I'm not leaving it any longer." Taking a couple of quick steps, Elizaveta vanished out of the tent and outside. The comment about the stew was tempting enough that Sigurd decided he would join the tribe for a meal, and moving swiftly to the pile of clothes in the corner, he lifted a fur and pulled it around his shoulders. It was made of the pelt of a summer bear, dark brown like the earth, and the head of the creature was still attached like a hood. Although almost five winters old, it did a wonderful job of keeping him warm. Thumbing the pelt of the creature, Sigurd allowed the spirits to resettle on him before opening the tent.

The bitter, endless night-cold bit at his face like a starving animal the moment he stepped outside, and grimacing a bit, he headed through the mostly-still dark towards the fire crackling in the centre of camp. It hissed and spat, and the meat suspended over it was visible even from the distance Sigurd was standing. Snow crunching under his feet, the shaman sank down next to Elizaveta on a chair, who already had a plate of the thick brown stew in her lap and was shovelling it down her throat. The rest of the tribe was blissfully silent, and Sigurd hastily made his way over to the large pot and spooned some of the food into it before returning to his previous spot. Elizaveta spared him a half-grin before returning to her food, and as the shaman put a spoonful of stew into his mouth, he let his gaze wander to the large pole erected not too far from the fire. His throat constricted at the sight, and he had to force himself to swallow.

The carcasses of the liufr lay at the feet of the wildling, covered by quickly set up tents, but the boy himself was covered only by a fur. Sigurd could see the hot air he was breathing out misting through the gag, and from the limp way he was hanging, he seemed to be unconscious. Well, Sigurd decided ruefully, he'd be fine. Moving on, he went back to wolfing down the stew. It was hot, and salty, and it could have probably used some herbs, but after weeks on nothing but dried selfee, it was a blessing from the gods.

"'s good, yeah?" Gilbert wandered over, scraping the thick soup from the walls of the ball with a spoon and licking it as he sank down next to the fire and pulled off the spit-roasted animal. Fat dripped and sizzled in the snow, but the hunter seemed unaffected by the heat and pulled out a knife to begin shaving off hunks of hot meat.

"Mmm." Sigurd agreed awkwardly, always a little thrown off by Gilbert's rapid change in attitude, but too focused on the sizzling slices of meat in front of them. The younger children of the tribe were wandering closer with their plates, too, food smeared around their mouths but still hungry for more. Gilbert began slapping hunks of the meat on the plates, and the children would rush off, putting the hot meat in their mouths with shrieks of delight. The camp, quiet only minutes before, was very quickly becoming louder and louder with the noises of satisfied tribe members, and the atmosphere was one that had been missing a good while. A few people across from Sigurd were singing, much to his amusement.

"It's been a while since the tribe was like this." Elizaveta seemed to have finished her bowl of soup, and leaning back a little, was watching the tribe cheer and feast on their kill. "I missed seeing everyone like this." The fondness in her expression really was reserved for the tribe, Sigurd observed thoughtfully, and turned his gaze back to Erikur as he felt the spirits rush past him and towards the boy. They were like black smoke, clinging to his form, and much to the shaman's shock, he realised they were attempting to force themselves down the small boy's throat. He was coughing and hacking behind the gag, and quickly, Sigurd leapt up and made his hasty way over. Thanks to the food, he was largely unnoticed, and as he reached up and shooed the spirits away, the wildling let out a low hiss.

"Shut up." The harshness of Sigurd's tone didn't seem to affect the boy, and he growled again, although visibly relaxed when the spirits were moved from around his face. His nose was blue with cold, and the rags he was wearing didn't seem to cover much, Sigurd observed doubtfully. Maybe he should take him in and make sure he didn't freeze to death. "Hold still or you'll be killed by some hunters who really don't want you to be here." The wildling gave no indication of hearing the man and just closed his eyes, not moving.

_Was this a good idea?_

Shrugging off the hesitancy, Sigurd reached up and cut the bonds keeping the white haired boy against the pole, but as his wrists were still bound, like his ankles, the wildling promptly landed in the snow with a groan of pain and just lay there. "Stop being dramatic." He muttered, leaning down and hefting him into his arms. The other was nothing more than skin and bones, barely conscious in his arms, and Sigurd made his way back towards his tent without sparing a glance for anyone else. It was irrelevant; he would do what he wished with the boy. He needed to get the Lights back.

Dropping the wildling and trying him back against the support that held the tent up, Sigurd wrapped a blanket around his shaking form and stood up, looking down at the spirits floating and slowly clustering to the boy. More proof, he supposed, but it didn't make what was happening any less odd. Settling down on the floor, the shaman leant forward and checked the boy's leg, intrigued to see the wound inflicted by the steel-tooth trap that had caught him.  
>"… by the Spinners..." The wound was scabbed over already?! But that would be impossible, not with the muscle damage that would have been inflicted…<p>

"Mmph..." The noise made Sigurd's gaze flicker up, and all of a sudden, he was meeting the wildling's eyes and the subject of a surprising amount of hate.

"Did… I'm going to take your gag off, but if you struggle, you're goin' back out with the liufr." Sigurd said solidly, and much to his surprise, the wildling gave an exasperated roll of his eyes in response. He'd barely anticipated anything coherent, let alone something laden with that amount of sarcasm. Despite that, the shaman reached up and undid the semi-frozen gag, folding the small hunk of material up and putting it on the table. Licking his wind-chapped lips, the wildling said nothing, which threw Sigurd off again. What was going on with him? "What is your name, boy?"

"Erikur." The reply was short and cold.

"Well, boy-"

"I just told you my name was Erikur, 'boy'." The plain disrespect in Erikur's voice made Sigurd go red, much to his frustration.

"I''m not a boy. I'm twenty two winters." He snapped, and Erikur snickered, shoulders shaking as blood gradually rushed back to them.

"I'm eighteen winters; it doesn't change whether you're childish. A hunter can be skilled and young." Shaking his head, Sigurd picked up the bone knife from the table, trying not to let himself be dragged into an argument.

"So, boy, how did you get the Lights?" He asked stonily, and for a brief moment, an expression of utter bewilderment crossed Erikur's face. It was gone as quickly as a fish spotted in the water, but the echo of confusion remained.

"What are 'the Lights'?" His words sent a thrill of shock through Sigurd, and he felt himself gaping at the boy, but he couldn't help it. How could he not know about the creation of the world? The cycle of life and death and the places in between?!

"They dance in the sky throughout winter and let us hunt. They're where the dead go t'return to the gods, and the Spinners weave them back into life when the time is right." The shaman said carefully, and Erikur blinked a bit, his cheeks flushing as blood returned to them and highlighting the fact that he was dangerously skinny, even when he didn't look on the verge of death.

"That's ridiculous. I can't steal things from the sky. I'm not that tall." He said bluntly, and Sigurd groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. Erikur really didn't know? Or was he just lying so he would be let go? Sigurd wouldn't be surprised.

"I don't know how you did it," he began harshly, eyeing the spirits crawling over Erikur's chest, "but y'did. The spirits cling to you like flies on a dead body in summer, and your eyes aren't supposed t'look like that." The longer the shaman talked, the more his voice cracked, and when he finished, the boy tied to the pole just snorted.

"There's nothing on me, and I can't tell you why people hate my eyes so much. The liufr like me." Erikur snapped, and he gave a squirm, testing his bonds. "Humans are selfish creatures, I've found!"

"You're a thief 'n' a liar!" The distress was making Sigurd drop letters from his speech, and with a hard swallow, he got up. "Let me know when y'want to talk about this." Erikur remained stubbornly silent, his gaze fixed on the floor and his teeth bared like he was some sort of feral animal. The cheering from outside was just as loud as earlier, and the scent of cooked food was drifting through the tent and making Sigurd's stomach rumble again. Maybe he should go and get some more food, and that'd calm him down. "You're not getting out, so just stay here." Heaving himself up and taking the dagger with him, the blond headed back out into the snow, his head still spinning from the encounter. He had never met anyone like Erikur in his life; no one had ever showed him the plain disrespect he had, not even Gilbert, and calling him a _boy…_

"You seem tense, Sigurd!" A hot, heavy weight ploughed straight into his legs, and with a croak, the poor shaman managed to regain his footing before looking down with narrowed eyes. At his feet stood Peter, a young boy far too enthusiastic for his own good and a bowl of food in his hands.  
>"I'm fine." The man responded shortly, and Peter laughed loudly, enough to attract a few curious glances from the tribe members who were returning to their cabin for bed.<p>

"Yeah, sure, okay! Just eat this, okay? I was supposed to but I wanna go play. I've already eaten." Shoving the bowl into Sigurd's hands, Peter skidded and bounced off, making a trail of powder as he went. The shaman watched him go, still too absorbed in Erikur to say anything. Maybe he could convince the other to talk with him in exchange for food. Taking a hunk of liufr and putting it in his mouth, Sigurd turned and headed back into the tent, frowning.

"What's that?" Erikur's loud, cutting voice echoed in the tent the second Sigurd walked in, and rolling his eyes, Sigurd held out the bowl.

"Liufr." For a minute, Erikur looked like he might throw up, but his stomach made a noise like the animal itself, and he bit his lip. The boy was clearly torn, but he couldn't figure out why; you ate animals. That was how nature worked here.

"…"  
>"I'll give you some if you tell me how long you've been out there." There was a moment of silence, and although he looked like he still might vomit, Erikur nodded a bit. Sigurd sank down in front of him, and getting a spoonful of the stew, put it to the other's lips. Quickly, the boy took the food into his mouth and chewed on it, swallowing quickly and opening his mouth again for more. However, Sigurd shook his head. "No. Answer my question."<p>

"How long I've been out in the pack?" Erikur pressed, and Sigurd gave a little nod.

"I've been in my pack for twelve winters. I can't remember much before that." He said simply, and in response, Sigurd gave him another spoonful of the food. It was interesting, watching the boy tear into his own family in that way, but he supposed when you were hungry you did anything. His gaze drifted to the small black spirit sitting on Erikur's shoulder, and when the boy opened his mouth, the spirit launched itself into his mouth and vanished down his throat. As Sigurd's eyes widened, Erikur began hacking and coughing, small specks of glowing light coming from his mouth as he tried to double over in the bindings. The shaman grabbed the other's shoulders and slapped between his shoulder blades hard, and Erikur promptly vomited all over the shaman, wheezing. The hot liquid on his nice fur made Sigurd grimace, but he was more focused on making sure that no more spirits were going to ruin his efforts in trying to talk to the boy. Brushing them all off him, the blond noticed that the spirits where scrambling to where Erikur had thrown up and vanishing.

"Disgusting." He muttered, and still gagging a little, Erikur lay back against the pole and closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry, human, but I can't control that." He snarled, and Sigurd shook his head.  
>"No, not… not you." Gently, he wiped the vomit off Erikur's mouth, not wanting the boy to stink up the place, and moved his coat to lie on the ground. "It was the spirit going down your throat that caused that."<p>

"The… spirit?" Still gagging a bit, Erikur opened an eye to look at Sigurd, and the man nodded.

"Spirits of those who have passed. They wait in this world for the passage to the next, woven by the Spinners' breath." Desperately wanting to convince Erikur to tell him more about the Lights and how he had them, the shaman knelt in front of him and offered him some water he kept by the fire so it didn't freeze. "Do you want some?" The smell of vomit was making his stomach churn, and when Erikur looked away and gave a small nod, he raised the bowl and let the white haired boy gulp down about half of it. Satisfied, Sigurd wrapped the fur on the floor up that had caught most of the vomit and moved it to sit in the doorway, deciding he'd ask one of the younger tribe members to wash it later. At least his own coat had caught only the splashes of vomit.

"… So you think I have this breath?" The way Erikur's voice lilted, almost afraid, made Sigurd turn around and frown at him. Did the other honestly not know what the Lights were? What any of this meant for the tribes of the moon?

"You do." There was a long pause, and Sigurd felt a thrill in his chest as Erikur nodded. He knew it!  
>"I do. I can show you where I got them tomorrow." The white-haired boy said flatly, and letting a real grin come onto his face, the shaman clapped his hands together.<p>

"… Really? Y'gonna show me?"

"Yes." Erikur's gaze stayed fixed on Sigurd's face, unblinking, and with a loud exhale, Sigurd allowed himself to sink down onto the small bed on the other side of the fire and rubbed his eyes. He didn't even begin to think that he might've been being fooled; the man was just so relieved to finally have a chance to be connected to the gods again that he would have done anything.

"Great. I'll wake you up tomorrow." The wildling's expression changed, and this time, he just looked exasperated.

"I'm not going to sleep like this, Sigurd."

"..." Thinking about it. Sigurd decided he liked the other calling him boy better. It came without the dry, cutting edge to it. "You will. You tried to kill me."  
>"I wasn't going to! I just wanted to knock you out so you didn't kill <em>me.<em>" A sigh, and Sigurd put one of the furs around Erikur, tying it so it stayed up and loosening the bonds around his shoulders a tiny amount so the other could lie back comfortably against the pole.

"Sleep. We leave tomorrow." He said stonily, and ignoring any other argument the other put forward, settled down on the furs and pulled them up after discarding his coat. He'd clean up tomorrow, before he went, and finally, the Lights would return, and the tribes would be safe again.

With that in mind, Sigurd let himself drift off, eyes closed and a tiny smile on his face.


End file.
